


àpeiron

by tetsaturn



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Attempt at Humor, Dokkaebi! Hongjoong, Fantasy Writer! Seonghwa, First Meetings, Flirting, Getting Together, M/M, Mentions of Myth & Folklore, Minor Choi San/Jung Wooyoung, Pining, Slow Burn, Unresolved Tension, also hongjoong's wand is a brush and he paints seonghwas house bec why not, basically hongjoong teases tf out of seonghwa and seonghwa is very stressed, but thats a metaphor, idfk, lots of metaphors, seonghwa accidentally summons a dokkaebi and things escalate from there, the ateez ensamble except jongho works in a coffee shop, this is a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26835082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tetsaturn/pseuds/tetsaturn
Summary: Seonghwa writes in black and white, until a certain dokkaebi arrives to color the inspiration out of him (and a lot more).or: Seonghwa, a fantasy writer, summons Hongjoong, a dokkaebi, by accident, and finds out what being stuck with a supernatural creature implies; panic ensues.
Relationships: Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	àpeiron

**Author's Note:**

> alright. so.
> 
> this has been stuck in my drafts for way too long, and i'm publishing the first chapter in the hopes of being inspired enough to continue it, because i fell in love with this au and i hope y'all do too.
> 
> here's some insight:  
> -a dokkaebi is a creature belonging to korean folklore, and it's basically a mischievous little spirit who obstructs bad humans and helps good humans; it can be summoned using an old household object such as a broom, or objects stained with blood. it has the appearence of a red goblin with horns (but i decided to give hongjoong a human appearence because he's way too pretty for that). it's got a wand that it can use to summon things that already exist, and a hat to make itself invisible.  
> -the title, àpeiron, comes from the greek "endless", and it relates to hongjoong's world in this fic; it's a little fun word the greek philosopher anaximander decided to use to explain nature so my nerd ass thought mmm why not
> 
> and that's all. enjoy :)

All Seonghwa needed was inspiration, yet still, inspiration wasn't coming.

It wasn't a "oh, I'd really like to write more" need, nor a "I'm really bored so I better get some work done" need; no, it was a "if I don't get this done by the end of the month the publishing house won't accept anything from me anymore, and there goes my last resort" need. It came with a pounding headache, and the feel of unfulfillment and frustration deep within his chest. It came with a cup of black coffee made 5 minutes earlier in the hope it'd wake up something in him, but left going cold beside the computer. It came with the apathetic stare to the clock hanging on the bare wall, eyes ardently focused on the minutes passing by. On the wasted time.

It came with mental reminders to think, hardly, deeply, and the realization that he was left with no thoughts to cling on. Not anymore.

And that's the worst thing that could happen to a writer. Seonghwa had blindly convinced himself that yes, he was still inspired, he still had something to write about, something to tell to the world; but in doing so, he ignored the fact that when he looked out his window, he didn't see little fragments of inspiration looking back at him, but just absolute, plain nothingness.

When he looked down at the road, his eyes didn't see magical and shifting paths anymore, but grey cement; when he looked at the flats across from his, he didn't see lovers hiding behind the curtains or superheroes crawling on the terrace above, but plain, light-reflecting windows; when he looked at the morning or night sky, he didn't see space ships or foreign creatures or superb gods anymore, but just a simple palette of colour. When he looked inside, at his bare, white wall, he didn't see a white canvas where he could mix, compose, shift, harmonize his words; but just boredom and helplessness.

And that was something Seonghwa couldn't ignore anymore.

The novel he was trying to finish was a fantasy story, as all his novels had ever been, and it was a matter of chapters before its end; but the last chapters were always the most difficult ones, as Seonghwa always tried to write them as fast as possible but not so that they came out hurried and underwhelming. They were the difficult ones, but Seonghwa had always found a way around it. Not this time, though.

The last thing missing was this one character, this one god-forsaken character that had been bugging Seonghwa's mind; it had to be some sort of fairy, a mischievous creature, that could intervene in the main characters' plot and make it flow easier, but _what_ kind of creature? And how to introduce it? How to insert it in the plot, without making it seem forced?

The clock was ticking; a loud noise piercing through the night's silence. Seonghwa decided he couldn't stand it anymore.

So, he shook himself off his studio's chair, absently realizing that his joints hurt from staying hunched there for so long, stretched his arms up and went towards the library shelf across the room. Books. He had to search through books. Old, fairy tale, folklore books; he had them, right? He furrowed his brows for a moment, then mentally slapped himself on his forehead. Of course he did, he was a fantasy writer.

He already knew almost all of them by memory, though, and none had what he was searching for; so he decided to pick up this one ancient book about Korean folklore that his grandmother had given him some time ago, but that he had never read quite carefully. It was a large and heavy book; the cover was hard and brownish, with its title - _Tales of Korean folklore_ \- carved on the centre, and the pages were made yellow on the edges by time.

His fingers quickly turned the pages to find the index. His eyes read _Origins of Korean folklore_ , _Creation myths_ , _Founding myths_ , _Birth myths_ , _Deities_... to finally land on _Other folklore creatures_. Page 579.

The chapter, Seonghwa found out, was basically a list of minor creatures, such as ghosts, or mythical dragons, or four-tailed foxes, creatures he already knew the existence of. The one he didn't know, was a creature the book said was called a dokkaebi. He forced his heavy lids open and carefully read the words following the title:

_The dokkaebi is a spirit possessing extraordinary abilities that are used to interact with humans, at times playing tricks on them and at times helping them; it is not formed by the death of a human being, but by the spiritual possession of an inanimate object such as old discarded household tools like brooms, or objects stained with human blood. The physical appearance of the dokkaebi is presented in many different ways and_ -

_And_ when he tried to turn the page to read further, he noticed that the next two pages were still attached, as was usual for old books. 

So, sighing deeply - he was tired and annoyed, do not judge him -, Seonghwa brought the book with him in his kitchen, eyes quickly searching for a knife to cut the two pages. Except, the knife he had distractedly picked up was way too big, and, in a hurried attempt to separate the pages and read further, he cut his index finger.

Seonghwa cursed loudly, both the book and the knife dropping on the ground with a thud; a single drop of blood followed them, faintly staining the two pages. 

He immediately brought the finger to his mouth, sucking on it to stop the bleeding, and grimaced deeply, mentally cursing his distracted self. The cut didn't hurt that much, really, but just enough to irritate him further. Then, he stared down at the blood stain on the book.

_Huh_ , he thought, remembering what he had read on that same book. _Funny_.

"Guess I just did enough to actually summon a- dokkaebi, or however they're called," he mumbled to himself, squatting down to pick up both the book and the knife; he put the knife back on the drawer – why did he choose such a large knife for that simple task, he honestly didn’t know – and, while finishing his reading, he went back towards his studio, eyes focused on the page.

\- _has varied by different time periods, but they have always been depicted as fearsome and awe-inspiring. Dokkaebi fire is a glimmering light or tall blue flames that herald the appearance of dokkaebi._

And then, well. Then something happened.

Seonghwa blamed it on his sleepiness, on his stress, on his long ruined mental sanity, on undiagnosed schizophrenia, perhaps. But. But the second after, he dropped the book once again, and this time for a very different reason: it went on fire.

Not just simple fire, no: tall, blue, glimmering fire.

A hallucination, perhaps. A vision. Because, as it came, it suddenly went away.

At its place, there was a boy, crouching on the ground.

Not just a simple boy, no: a creature.

Icy eyes, flaming red hair and a wide, mischievous smile looked up at him.

"Well, well. Did you call for me?"

Seonghwa blinked his eyes once, twice. Then, he screamed.

✒

"So, what you're telling me is."

Seonghwa put down his cup of newly made tea, staring thoughtfully into distance.

"You really are a dokkaebi, and i summoned you- on accident?"

They both were in the kitchen, now, because after Seonghwa had calmed down - and pinched his thighs a few times to make sure he wasn't actually dreaming - he had tried to drink his coffee, but it was cold and he really needed something warm to drink, some sort of liquid in his throat to make sure he was alive. So, he had made tea.

The boy - no, the creature - had happily hopped on the counter, smile blinding and legs swinging. Like this, Seonghwa had gotten a closer look to him.

The first two things catching the eye were his unnaturally red hair and unnaturally icy blue eyes, large and glimmering with a mischievous spark. The creature had beautiful features, with a thin visage, a small nose, full lips and a straight, white set of teeth almost always showing by the Cheshire cat-like smile. Overall, his stature was small, agile looking, and he was dressed like a child in an adult's clothes: big, droopy, plaid pants - suspiciously pajamas-like - and a large white button-down shirt, which hung from one shoulder and whose sleeves were way too long for his arms; his feet were bare. Behind his left ear, there was something tucked that looked like a very old painting brush, and around his waist there was red scarf with a black hat hanging from it.

Needless to say, his appearance was very much odd.

"Yes."

Seonghwa took a sip of his tea, glancing at the creature suspiciously.

"How can I be sure you're not a chief or a psychopath?"

The creature paused his swinging legs, and rolled his eyes.

"I literally showed up from a blue fire."

"You're a magician, then."

At this, he held up a hand and took the strange painting brush behind his ear, swinging it slightly towards the other. Seonghwa frowned. Then, his eyes went wide when the cup was taken from his hands and floated in the creature's free hand, who took a sip of it and grinned.

"Not a magician, either."

"Wait, my tea-" Seonghwa paused, choosing not to complain about it. "Wait, what's that thing?"

"It's my wand. With it, I can summon things that already exist."

"Why does it look like a painting brush?"

"It was boring, so I personalised it."

Seonghwa went silent after that. He looked at the cup in the creature's hands and thought about the fact that, without his tea, he had no distractions now. Perhaps, he was going insane.

"So okay, I summoned you. On accident. How do I send you back?"

The creature pouted, mocking. "What, you don't want me here, human? I'm truly offended."

"Actually, no."

The creature chuckled. It was a light, airy sound. "I'm afraid you can't, human. You're stuck with me now. And thank you, by the way, you saved me from a pretty boring faith with a boring old female." He then frowned. "She forced me to do chores. Ugh."

"I'm pretty boring myself, though. I'm a- a fantasy writer. I live alone and I just write."

The creature's eyes sparked with interest, nonetheless. Seonghwa cringed, because all he wanted to do was bore him away and definitely _not_ interest him enough to stay.

"A fantasy writer? As in, you write books about fantasy creatures and stuff like that?"

"Yes. Very boring."

The creature chuckled once again. "Cute," he said, sounding amused, and quietly sipped his tea, icy eyes staring at the human in front of him.

Seonghwa sputtered. "What do you mean c-", he then paused, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. If what the creature was saying was true, and Seonghwa was bound to live with him for god knows how much time, it wasn't good to lose his cool right off the bat.

However, the silent and amused staring by the creature across from him - as if Seonghwa was the odd one here - was only annoying him further; so, he threw his hands up, and exasperatedly asked: "Do you think you could, you know, explain to me how this works? Because you're definitely not helping, sitting there and staring at me like I'm some kind of- freak show, while I'm just still deciding whether or not I've gone insane!"

There was a pause after the nevrotic outburst; then, the creature loudly put the cup back on the counter and clapped his hands cheerfully. "Okay then, introduction first! You can call me Hongjoong, nice to meet you, human. What's your name?"

Seonghwa was left stunned by the sudden change of behaviour. A second ago, the creature - Hongjoong - was staring right into his soul and the second after he was happily introducing himself.

"Seonghwa," he breathed.

"Hello, Seonghwa. As you already know, I'm a dokkaebi, as in, a spirit which is known to appear and help good humans or obstruct bad humans. Let's hope you are a good one," he cheekily added, throwing a wink. Seonghwa just stared at him further, letting him know that he was not impressed by that. The creature didn't notice, or he just didn't care.

"I only appear at night," he continued, "so I'll leave you alone all day and let you do your writer things. I can go anywhere I want at night, but I'll only appear back in your house, so consider this place my portal to the human world."

"Where do you go during the day, though?" Seonghwa interrupted.

Hongjoong grinned, and his grin suddenly told of ancient tales, and of a superior knowledge; the tone of his voice went oddly deep, solemn. "Where all the spirits like me go; the place in which I was first made," he paused for a second. "There's a lot that humans don't know about us, even a human like you, fantasy writer."

Seonghwa was left stunned, once again.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he was back to his child-like demeanor, as he continued his explaining. "I can only leave this house if another human summons me. Which is very rare, since we dokkaebis aren't very much known. So, you're stuck with me for a really long time, writer."

"Great," Seonghwa breathed, staring into distance. He had listened to everything Hongjoong had said, but he wasn't sure if his brain actually registered all of it.

He should've been freaking out, he thought. That was definitely something to freak out about. However, all he had the energy to do was to stare into distance and try not to completely close his heavy lids.

There was a loud noise. Seonghwa snapped his eyes up, and saw that Hongjoong suddenly hopped off the counter, and was curiously looking around. Then, the creature started moving towards his studio, bare feet tapping on the parquet. Seonghwa cursed and followed him.

"You're right, this is boring," he loudly exclaimed, stopping on his tracks to pick up a ceramic and very delicate vase Seonghwa had on his desk, and proceeded to examine it closely. Then, he carelessly dropped it back on the desk, and Seonghwa felt his heart jump in his throat. He rushed to put it in the position it was supposed to be in, while Hongjoong just continued to do the same thing with almost every object in the room.

Then, Hongjoong paused when he saw the white wall with the single clock.

For a few seconds, the clock ticking was the only sound hovering above both of them; it now signed past 3am.

As Hongjoong examined the wall, Seonghwa felt breathless. He felt like on it, he could read all the helplessness, the apathy, the boredom Seonghwa fell in. The wordless pages. The frustration and the sleepless nights.

Hongjoong was looking at it, and Seongwa didn't know what he was seeing. He irrationally feared that Hongjoong would see the same thing Seonghwa did when he looked at it: a wordless canvas, and a tale of wasted time and gone inspiration.

But Hongjoong just stared thoughtfully, and his hand flew up to touch the odd wand behind his ear in what looked like a spontaneous gesture. 

"Boring," he then stated. "Yes, I'm definitely gonna personalize it a bit, since this will be mine too from now on, you know," Hongjoong added; then, he looked at Seonghwa and grinned that same, usual Cheshire cat-like grin. "I hope you don't mind, human."

Seonghwa pinched his thigh again, just to make sure.

Nope, not a dream.

This was going to be a _long_ night, Seonghwa could only tell.

✒

When Seonghwa woke up the day after, it was to a pool of drool on his studio's desk, a white wall and scattered items across the floor - the only proof of what, apparently, had happened the night before.

He got up from his hunched position on the chair, stretching his arms up and grimacing when he found out that his neck hurt from the awkward position he had slept in; then, he sleepily glanced at the clock on the wall, which said 12:37pm. Great.

Seonghwa ardently ignored all the memories from the night before creeping up, one by one, into his foggy brain, as he walked towards his kitchen. He stared at the coffee maker beside the stove. His hands reached out to grab it and make himself some well deserved coffee, then he stopped. He stared some more.

And that's how he found himself in front of the usual Americano and the usual croissant, seated at the usual table near the counter, at the Daily Grind. Dressing up and actually going out had been a pain, but was it worth not making his own coffee? Definitely. 

The coffee shop was tucked in a corner in one of the main streets, between two clothes shops, and it was 5 minutes away from his apartment by foot. Seonghwa had found it by mistake - it was raining and he didn't have an umbrella and he needed repair for him and his poor laptop -, but he soon became a regular when he got to know the nice food and the nice employers. Who became his friends in the long run - even if Seonghwa still didn't know how that happened, exactly.

Yeosang was cleaning the counter across from him, quietly humming a song. He had smiled and arched an eyebrow at Seonghwa when the latter had entered the place, obviously hinting at the fact that the coffee shop was empty - and that Seonghwa was the only person who could be at a coffee shop at that hour. Seonghwa had just smiled back, sheepishly, ordering his usual and placing his laptop on the table.

"Late night?" asked Yeosang.

Seonghwa cringed a little. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Still didn't continue your novel?" Yeosang dropped the cleaning cloth behind the counter and leaned in, placing an elbow on the marble and his chin on his hand. In the kitchen, they could loudly hear San singing, because that kid simply didn't care about his surroundings.

"I tried to, last night," said Seonghwa around a mouthful of croissant, "But- it didn't exactly work out."

Because he’d been interrupted by a certain dokkaebi, but Seonghwa omitted that part.

"Is there something I can do to help you find inspiration, maybe?"

Yeosang smiled a warm, tiny smile and tilted his head.

"I don't think so, but thank you, Yeosangie," Seonghwa smiled back. "I'll let you know if I need help."

Yeosang nodded and stretched himself up from his position. Then, he grinned knowingly and almost apologetic, and said, "Okay, but just to let you know, the others are planning to drag you to a movie night to shake you off a little. So. I guess we'll try to help you whether you want it or not."

San had stopped his loud singing, because apparently he eavesdropped enough to rush behind Yeosang from the kitchen.

"Yeosang!"

"What."

"It was supposed to be a surprise!"

"Don't care."

San just huffed and went back into the kitchen. Then, he peeked in again just to yell a very obnoxious "Hello Seonghwa hyung!" and disappeared.

Seonghwa had watched the whole scene with amused eyes, just quietly sipping his Americano and chuckling every now and then. They were annoying, but he couldn't exactly blame them for wanting to drag him out every now and then, since he was literally a gremlin; and well, maybe he didn't show it, but he was grateful.

(The white walls and the empty pages and the cold coffees got too lonely, sometimes).

In front of him, Yeosang hummed quietly and undisturbed, then he said, "I'll go in the kitchen and see what's San up to. You know you can stay as much as you want."

Seonghwa waved taking a gulp of his coffee, and Yeosang cheekily winked at him before disappearing.

Once again, Seonghwa was left in the only company of his thoughts.

He finished off his croissant while watching out the window on the opposite wall; it was a cloudy day, but some rays of sunshine were peeking through and illuminating just a few spots on the street below. His eyes followed the path that they made from the concrete ground, up to the sky, behind the clouds. Seonghwa wondered.

The dokkaebi had said "the place in which I was first made", and Seonghwa wondered.

Would he be able to see it, if he could track the entirety of the rays' path? Was it a land of sunshine, or was it more like an ageless, eternal limbo, watching humans from up above running around like ants? Was it light, and white, and floating, or was it dark, and black, and unmoving?

Seonghwa trailed his eyes down, to a single illuminated spot. Someone passed by and stepped on it; interrupting the glamour.

He opened up his laptop, and began typing.

✒

Seonghwa didn't know how much he wrote, because he, as a personal agreement, refused to check the words count and be affected by it. What he did know was that he had spent the whole day at the coffee shop, because the hours had passed by without him noticing, hunched in the same position in front of his laptop, fingers quick and sore. Seonghwa realized that thanks to a gentle tap on his shoulder, and Yeosang's warm voice asking, "Hyung, it's almost 9pm already, do you want something to eat?"

Seonghwa squinted his eyes, blinking a few times and finding them burning after all those hours spent in front of the bright screen, and asked, "Wait, already? I'm so sorry- I know you're closing soon, I'll go."

"Without something to eat first? I didn't ask you earlier because I didn't want to interrupt you."

"No, don't worry," said Seonghwa, shaking his head and starting to collect his things, "I'll cook myself something when I arrive home, thank you."

While Seonghwa was busy putting his laptop back into his bag, Yeosang came with a greasy paper bag anyway, which he shoved into Seonghwa's free hand. Seonghwa huffed, wanting to take it back, because "I already took enough advantage of your shop today, Yeosang," but Yeosang just shoved it again and said "Shush. Take it. This is my congratulations for your new-found motivation."

Seonghwa continued to huff, but a smile came to his face nonetheless, and he said, "Thank you, Yeosangie."

Yeosang just winked. Then, San ran from inside the kitchen, just to squeal and place his arms around Yeosang's neck. Yeosang grimaced.

"Are you going, hyung? I'm glad you wrote today! It was thanks to the shop, wasn't it? The atmosphere and the smell of coffee and pastries and-"

"San is this cheerful only because he has to see Wooyoung after this," Yeosang interrupted.

San let out an offended whine and flicked his finger on the other's forehead. "Shut up, I'm always cheerful."

"Oh yeah? Even when you can't hang out with Wooyoung?" Then, he took a deep breath and said, in a whiney, mocking voice, "' _I miss him so much, Yeosangie, he sent me a selca and he looked so good, Yeosangie, I miss him_ -" and was interrupted by San's hand on his mouth.

"Am I not allowed to complain about the agonizing pain of distanced love?"

Yeosang bit his hand. San whined and freed his mouth.

"No."

San looked at Seonghwa, who was grinning widely at the scene, and made his puppy eyes.

"Do you see how I'm treated here, hyung?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"You _are_ a little annoying, Sanie."

"Hyung!"

Seonghwa chuckled and reached forward to ruff San's hair with the hand that wasn't holding the paper bag, just to see him squeal further and mess with him. "But that's okay, Sanie. We love you."

Yeosang was still trying to free himself from San's arms, so he huffed and muttered, "Speak for yourself."

After a few more teasing lines, and a few more offended whines, Yeosang decided that it was enough and literally threw Seonghwa out his shop, because "You haven't eaten all day and I don't want your malnutrition on my conscience."

Seonghwa had just laughed and scurried to the door, waving, then reached inside the paper bag and made a show of taking a bite of the donut the boy had given to him earlier. San yelled, "Bye hyung!", and Seonghwa was out the coffee shop.

The night breeze immediately crept up his exposed neck, but it was pleasant on his skin; he hummed appreciatingly as sweet chocolate flavour exploded into his mouth, making his way back to his house. There wasn't anyone on the street, just a few parked cars, yellow lamp stops and the white, single light of the moon.

It was a good donut, and a good evening, and perhaps, overall, a good day.

Good, because he wrote that day. He didn't know how much, but enough to feel that warm feeling in his chest he could only identify as satisfaction; long missed, relieving, dear satisfaction. It began in his chest and ramified into his fingers, his limbs, his neck, buzzing with giddiness.

A feeling Seonghwa knew was the exact consequence of a productive day, having met it already a few times in the past, having treasured it as something to look forward to.

A feeling which reminded Seonghwa exactly why he had chosen to be a writer, in days when he couldn't bring himself to remember the reason.

A feeling which reminded him exactly _why_ it was worth it.

Although his fingers and neck were sore, although his limbs were tingling and his head was empty, Seonghwa felt at victory, as his feet moved on their own - almost floating - towards his house, just by muscle memory.

He finished off his chocolate donut.

So, overall, a good day.

However.

His head was empty, yes, but apparently it still had a hidden, omnipresent compartment full of this one thing, and this one thing only.

In fact, it could've been a perfect day, if it wasn't for this one thing. One thing, one thing, one thing, and a hundred other things with it.

Flaming red hair and icy blue eyes.

Seonghwa just hoped to God that this one thing didn't break his poor, precious porcelain vase.

✒

When Seonghwa arrived home, he found the dokkaebi on his studio's floor, cross-legged and focused on the white wall in front of him. He was moving his brush/wand/wood thingy on the wall, and there was paint on his nose. And, well, all around him on the now stained floor.

Seonghwa honestly didn't know what he had expected. Maybe he had expected him to be in one of his catastrophic explorations of the house, with a few broken vases along his path; maybe he had expected him to have invaded his room, or to have destroyed all his books; or maybe he had expected him not to be there at all, blinded by the possibility that what had happened had been, in fact, a dream, and that Seonghwa was, in fact, crazy.

He had certainly not expected _this_.

Seonghwa watched, horrified, as the dokkaebi held his brush mid-air and some blue paint dripped from it on the floor. He still had his bag hanging from one shoulder and the greasy paper bag in one hand, because he had rushed in the studio as soon as he had opened up the door, expecting Hongjoong to be there and to have left a mess. And, well, he did.

Blue and red paint stained the poor parquet. He was already thinking about how he could get rid of the stains, maybe some water would've done the job, or maybe it wasn't enough, he needed to look into it, surely the internet had answers- but, wait.

Paint. Seonghwa didn't own paint.

Where did he get all that paint?

"W-what," Seonghwa stuttered out, "what are you doing?"

The dokkaebi suddenly snapped his eyes up, seeming startled, as if he was so concentrated before that he didn't even notice Seonghwa's presence.

"Oh, human, there you are," he grinned. "Hello."

"I asked you a question."

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Hongjoong tilted his head.

"Painting the wall."

"Bravo," he said, mocking.

Seonghwa pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, and proceeded to put his bag on the desk and to flush the paper bag into the bin under it, trying - really hard - to stay calm.

"Okay. And why are you painting the wall?"

In the meanwhile, Hongjoong had just continued doing what he had been doing before, brushing the strange object across the wall, eyebrows furrowed. Some more paint dripped on the floor. Seonghwa cringed. 

"As I said yesterday, human, this house is boring, so I might want to personalise it."

"I didn't allow you to."

Hongjoong grinned once more, licking his lips. "Who said I needed your permission?"

"I'm the owner of this house, Hongjoong."

"Tsk," the dokkaebi chuckled, "Humans tend to claim ownership of so many things, people included. There is no such thing as an owner."

The dokkaebi said it in a low voice, borderline accusing, and the change of tone in that sentence was, once again, so sudden that Seonghwa was left wordless. He just stood there and watched as Hongjoong went on with his painting, icy eyes not having left the white wall for a second. Then, he remembered.

"Where did you get all that paint? There wasn't any here."

"Oh, that," the dokkaebi painted a long, blue strike across the wall, "Did you know that other people live in this- how do you call it, a flat? Because I didn't."

Slow realization started to creep up into Seonghwa's mind.

"Hongjoong."

"And there's this one painter here, too, across the corridor. I liked the paintings in his living room very much," hummed the dokkaebi appreciatingly, as if he was picturing them in from of him.

"How did you- Hongjoong, did you _steal_ that paint?"

"No such thing as stealing."

"So you stole it."

"Again, I didn't," his eyes were still focused on the wall, as if he was giving Seonghwa the bare minimum of his attention.

Seonghwa brought, once again, a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, in an exasperated gesture.

"Then, what did you do?"

"I took something I needed in the moment I needed it," he replied, simply and slowly, as if he was explaining a very obvious concept to a very clueless child, "The gentleman can go buy himself some more paint."

"Jesus Christ, Hongjoong-" Seonghwa took a deep breath.

Okay, so. Hongjoong had stolen something from his neighbour. A painter, he said? That was probably Mr. Cheong, Seonghwa thought making a quick mental report of all the neighbours he knew, who were only a few; but he actually remembered Mr. Cheong for his grumpy artist behaviour (and that only made him panic further).

So, Hongjoong had stolen Mr. Cheong's paint, and the theft evidence was now in his studio, spilled all over the floor and painted in large strokes all over the wall.

Great.

"We have to get rid of this," Seonghwa stated, staring directly at the dokkaebi, who was still obnoxiously ignoring him.

Hongjoong hummed. "I'm afraid we can't."

"What do you mean we- Hongjoong, you stole that paint. Mr. Cheong is probably looking for it. And if he finds it in my house, the one paying for it will be _me_."

"I'm aware actions have consequences," he replied in a very uninterested voice, still painting large strokes over the wall. 

Seonghwa swore he could feel his left eye twitch.

"Stop, Hongjoong."

"Stop what, human?"

"Painting."

"No."

"If you stop painting right now, I swear I'll buy you all the paint you want. I'll even let you paint this entire house."

At this, Hongjoong slowly turned his head to look at Seonghwa and furrowed his brows, doubtful. "And why would I trust your words, human?"

"Because I'm honest."

He furrowed his brows further. "I doubt that."

Seonghwa brought his hands to the air and huffed. "Okay, fine, because I've got no point in lying since the one who will get my ass whooped if you don't stop painting right now and let me return that paint is me."

Hongjoong stared at him. Seonghwa stared back.

"I need every shade of paint you can find."

"I'll buy you every shade on earth."

"I mean it, human."

"I'm dead serious."

Hongjoong stared some more. Some more paint dripped from his brush thingy. Seonghwa pictured lots of angry shouting from a very angry neighbour, and cringed.

"Okay, deal."

Hongjoong dropped his brush, and Seonghwa let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

✒

The next step, and probably the most difficult one, was actually getting rid of that paint.

Seonghwa was no man for action, for quick, impulsive thinking, so he really tried to sit down and think about the best choice to make in that contingent. 

He sat down. He looked at the colourful crime scene. He realized that there was no point in thinking, since thinking won't get the paint to magically disappear, and he panicked.

"Can't you, like- can't you use your wand, or however you call it, and make it appear in Mr. Cheong's house or something?", Seonghwa blurted out, munching on his nail in a nervous tick.

Hongjoong was sitting on the floor, elbow on his right knee and chin perched up on his hand, and he wasn't smirking but the amused sparkle in his eyes showed that he really wanted to.

"No. As I explained before, human, I can only summon things that already exist, therefore I can't return them."

Seonghwa groaned loudly. At this, Hongjoong _did_ smirk. Cheeky little fucker.

"Okay. Okay, well- I guess I just have to-"

He grabbed one bucket of paint, and looked at it. 

He just had to take all of them and place them in front of Mr. Cheong's door, somehow. Yeah. No biggie. He just had to return them without getting caught, because the possibility of getting caught and its consequences was something he refused to think about. Okay. He had to do this.

Easier said than done.

He had just managed to convince himself when there was a sudden knock on his door, and a voice calling, "Park? Park Seonghwa?"

Seonghwa looked at the door, horrified.

Perhaps a call from hell. Yes, perhaps he had gone insane, died from brain failure and now hell was claiming him.

Finally.

"I'm Mr. Cheong, I wanted to ask you something?"

Oh. Worse than hell.

He hurriedly dropped the bucket and crouched down to grab Hongjoong's wrist - who made an offended whine at that -, forcing him to get up and dragging him outside of the studio; then he closed the door behind him, purposefully hiding the crime scene.

"Coming!" he yelled, then he turned around and hissed, eyes flashing with panic, "You have to hide."

"No."

" _Hongjoong_."

Hongjoong somehow managed to free himself from the other's grip and ran towards the door, hands coming down at his belt to grab his _hat?_ and put it on, for some odd reason.

Then, Seonghwa watched, horrified, as Hongjoong smirked at him from the other side of the house and opened the front door, hiding himself behind it, ridiculous hat still on his head.

Mr. Cheong tentatively opened it whole, looking around and finally focusing his gaze on a freezed, wide-eyed Seonghwa.

"Oh, was it open already?"

"Y-yeah. I think."

Mr. Cheong made a few steps forward. Hongjoong curiously looked at him, still next to the now open door. Seonghwa's eyes continuously switched between both of them, as he tried really hard not to panic.

"I wanted to ask you," the man started, "have you seen my paint buckets? I don't want to accuse you of anything, but I suspect someone took them from my house, since the door was open. And I really have to finish painting my living room, you see."

Seonghwa blinked and did his best to look confused.

"What? No, absolutely not," he looked at Hongjoong behind the man, still smirking widely at the scene, "I hope you find the culprit, though."

The man seemed confused at Seonghwa's fleeting gaze, so he turned around with furrowed brows. Seonghwa's heart dropped in his chest.

Hongjoong obnoxiously waved at the man in front of him, and Seonghwa was already opening up his mouth to find an excuse for the dokkaebi's presence, such as: _Oh, he's my mute cousin who came to visit_ or _Yes, he's dressed funny because he has a Peter Pan theatre show coming, doesn't it look realistic?_

But. The man's gaze was unfocused, as he glanced at Hongjoong as if there was nothing there, then turned back around looking even more confused. Hongjoong winked at Seonghwa and brought his index finger to his lips, cheekily directing him to shush, a mischievous spark in his icy eyes.

In the meantime, Seonghwa's heart had done a flip, some turns and was now in his usual position, only beating much faster.

Seonghwa wanted to choke him, or himself, or both.

Fucking dokkaebi.

"Are you sure, Park?"

"A hundred percent, sir."

"Can I do a little tour in your house, if you don't mind?"

Fucking, damned dokkaebi.

"Of course."

Seonghwa quickly showed him all his rooms, flashing him a smile that he hoped looked convincing and pointedly ignoring Hongjoong who had followed them, bouncing on his steps as if he was having a lot of fun.

He completely ignored his studio, the room hiding the crime scene, hoping to God that the man wouldn't notice, but Mr. Cheong looked at it and asked, "What about that room?"

Seonghwa could feel the gears in his brain working hastily. Think of something, Seonghwa, hurry, Seonghwa, before it's too late and you won't be convincing anymore, _c'mon_ Seonghwa-

"I keep my plants there," he blurted out at the end. "But, you see," he chuckled, "I had to spray a fertilizer on one of them that's quite toxic, so I wore a mask but now I forgot where I put it. I was searching for it, actually."

The man looked suspicious. Seonghwa gulped. "Plants? Indoors?"

"Yes. I'm very into indoor gardening."

"I thought you were a writer."

"It helps me relax."

"And there's no way we can enter that room?"

"Until I find that mask, I'm afraid we can't."

Mr. Cheong looked even more suspicious.

"But," Seonghwa hurriedly started, "I left the window open, so there won't be any left in the air by tomorrow morning! You can pass by again then, sir, if you'd like to check that room too."

The man finally looked convinced enough. Seonghwa sighed a quiet breath of relief, and looked behind the man's shoulders, where a very red dokkaebi was trying his best not to laugh. He looked away.

"Okay, I'll pass by tomorrow then," the man said in a low, barely convinced and borderline threatening voice, as he made his way towards the door. Seonghwa shivered.

"I'll be here, Mr. Cheong."

Seonghwa politely smiled at him as he closed the door behind him, and when the man was out the house, the other put his ear on the door. He heard steps getting more and more quiet, and then nothing at all. 

He closed his eyes, and put his forehead on the door, sighing heavily.

Seonghwa was safe. Finally.

Except, the quiet didn't last much, or not at all, as he suddenly heard a breathless laugh behind him.

"Oh my," Hongjoong wheezed, and Seonghwa could actually _see_ him clutching his stomach, but refused to turn around, "Indoor gardening? Really?"

"Shut up."

"A toxic fertilizer? Do those even exist?"

"Shut. Up."

He didn't shut up. In fact, the laugh got even louder.

"You're lucky humans are so stupid that he believed you, oh my," he heard more wheezing, "That was so entertaining, wow."

At this, Seonghwa snapped his head around and pointed a finger towards the creature, eyes flashing with anger, "This is all your fault! And what the fuck were you thinking, opening up the door when I told you to hide? And why the fuck didn't he see you? You knew he wouldn't and you did all that to give me a heart attack, didn't you?"

Hongjoong's smile was totally unfazed. "Perhaps."

"Oh my God," groaned Seonghwa, "stop talking in codes and explain to me what the fuck happened right then!"

"Okay, okay, calm down, you'll hurt your fragile human heart," Hongjoong said cheekily; he then grabbed that ridiculous hat still perched up on his head and held it in the air. "See? This happened."

Seonghwa blinked.

"What."

"Aren't you a fantasy writer? Didn't you do a bit of research about my kind, human?" he pouted, faking offense.

"Stop replying to my questions with more questions."

"Fine," he huffed then, hooking his hat back on his belt, "You're boring. Basically, this hat allows me to be invisible to humans, but only to ones that haven't acknowledged my existence already. As you saw before, the only one who could see me was you, while I was completely hidden from that man's sight."

"Oh," Seonghwa's gaze went up, pensive, "kinda like Harry Potter's invisibility cloak."

"Kinda like _what?_ "

"Nothing."

Hongjoong blinked, confused. Seonghwa looked at him, at the closed studio, then at him again.

He had to fix this mess before next morning, because Mr. Cheong would be there in the morning, checking out what was now the crime scene. He had to buy a few plants, and he had to fix this colourful, unwanted mess.

But with the new information gathered, he, perhaps, had a plan.

"You," he pointed his finger again at the creature in a threatening gesture, and Hongjoong just blinked at him, unimpressed, "have to help me now."

"No."

"Hongjoong."

"I'm not taking orders from a mere human."

"This mere human won't buy you any paint if you don't."

"I could just steal it back."

"I'll flush it in the toilet when you're not here."

"I'll make your life a living hell, human."

"Hongjoong."

"No."

" _Hongjoong._ "

The latter sighed. "Fine," he smirked, "but only because you're amusing when you pout."

Seonghwa spluttered.

"I _don't_ pout."

"Yes, you do. And you're also in denial."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

Seonghwa sighed, feeling defeated.

Fucking dokkaebi.

✒

The plan was: Seonghwa would put all the paint in an anonymous box, which Hongjoong would bring in front of Mr. Cheong's door at 3am while wearing his invisibility hat, so that if someone in the flat happened not to be asleep and ran into the dokkaebi, all they would see would be a cursed, floating box. Then they would probably blame the box on late night hallucinations or ghosts and run away scared, allowing Hongjoong to quietly place the box in front of the man's house and come back.

Perfect.

(Seonghwa hoped to God the dokkaebi wouldn’t find a way to screw all that up).

Surprisingly enough, the dokkaebi didn't screw that up, because he returned 10 minutes after or so, snickering under his breath at Seonghwa, who had been torturing his nails in the meanwhile, and happily announcing, "I encountered a human near that man's door. He looked _terrified_."

"Okay, but did you place the box there?"

Hongjoong rolled his eyes. "Yes, I did."

Seonghwa felt like he could breathe again. He let himself fall on the sofa in the living room, limbs weak; a few seconds passed by, and he opened up his drooping eyes to icy orbits frowning down at him. Seonghwa flinched. The dokkaebi had made his way behind the sofa, and was now standing behind him and glancing down at him very closely with an accusing glare.

"What."

"You're boring."

Seonghwa shifted his glare back down and laid on his side, eyes slowly closing. He was tired.

"You're annoying."

"Boring."

"Shut up."

He heard a gasp. "Is that how you treat superior creatures who just helped you, human?"

Seonghwa hummed, hoping he would drop it and let him rest. 

He didn't.

"You have to buy me the paint now."

"It's 4am. Shops are closed."

"You promised."

"I'll buy it tomorrow."

Hongjoong gasped louder than before. "You _promised!_ "

"I told you I'll buy it."

"And what am I supposed to do all night, then?"

Seonghwa could hear the pout in his voice.

"Stare at the wall."

Hongjoong whined.

"Sleep."

He whined louder.

Seonghwa sighed. He plopped an eye open, and reached for the TV remote, closing his eyes back again and holding it up for Hongjoong to grab it. 

"Here. Figure this out and watch some human crap."

He heard a huff, then quiet steps and the sofa shifting under another weight across from him. He heard fidgeting, buttons clicking, and the TV finally working. He heard even more fidgeting, and channels continuously being switched. He felt himself falling into drowsiness.

He didn't know when, or if, he felt sudden, hesitating warmth on his lap. Hair tickled the skin of his belly left uncovered by his shirt. His blurred vision saw flaming red locks.

The voices coming from the TV felt more and more distant. The warmth on his lap switched a little, and finally settled.

His eyelids dropped down, and all he saw behind them was black.

✒

Hongjoong was gone by the next morning. Seonghwa realized that due to the feeling of emptiness on his lap, because as soon as his lap got oddly used to the warmth and the weight of the other's body overnight, he seemed to disappear. When he opened his eyes, no red locks awaited his glare.

Did he just disappear by himself, slowly drifting away? Did someone - another creature, a superior one - call him, summon him, to _the place in which he was first made_? Did he walk away at dawn and enter the portal to the other world, the world no human could and would ever know about?

Seonghwa wondered.

The day went okay, after that. He didn't buy the plants, because before he could Mr. Cheong knocked at his door and announced sheepishly, "I don't know what happened exactly and why, but turns out the chief returned the paint? I found a box full of paint buckets in front of my door this morning. So there's no need to show me that room, Park."

Seonghwa was glad, because otherwise his studio would've looked like a low-cost jungle set or something; so overall, very messy. And Seonghwa couldn't do messy.

He decided to go buy some paint for the dokkaebi. The dokkaebi had said "Every shade of paint you can find," and Seonghwa kept that in mind as he entered a crafting shop and made a beeline for the paint buckets. He bought, as promised, every colour he could find and afford - some green, a pretty shade of blue, some red, black, purple - and he silently regarded the brushes, wondering if Hongjoong needed them, but decided against it at the end; maybe some other time. He also bought a whole lot of newspapers on the way home hoping they would protect his poor, already stained floor. With his hands full of paint buckets and newspapers, he wondered if people in the street regarded him as a housepainter on the way to his job; Seonghwa thought he didn't have the look for it, anyway. Too boring, too colourless.

He didn't write that day. Seonghwa told himself it was okay, because he was tired and all the writing he did the day before made up for it.

(He couldn't help the ache in his chest as he watched the minutes passing by without any paragraph or line or word written, though).

When Hongjoong appeared again, Seonghwa was on his couch watching a shitty romcom and munching on some paprika chips. Wooyoung had already texted him four times, and San eight times. He had ignored them all evening.

"Hello, human."

Seonghwa blinked, startled. He honestly didn't know where the creature came from. A moment earlier he was all alone, and the moment later there he was beside the couch, glaring at him curiously. Seonghwa didn't think he would ever figure it out, either.

"Hongjoong."

"Did you bring me the paint?"

Straight to the point.

"I did. Check the studio."

Hongjoong hummed pleasingly, and walked towards the room, where Seonghwa had set up the newspapers all over the floor and the paint buckets next to the already painted wall, making sure that Hongjoong could see them.

The dokkaebi worked quietly, that night. Once he entered it, he didn't leave the studio at all, and Seonghwa found the quietness of Hongjoong's work pleasant; the only sound they both could hear was the low buzzing of the TV and the smooth brushing of Hongjoong's tool against the wall. Seonghwa soon found himself drifting off, but he didn't want to fall asleep on the couch again, so he forced himself to actually get up and get in his bed to have a decent night of sleep. 

Before going towards his room, he stopped by the studio and peeked in. Hongjoong was on the floor, legs crossed and bare feet twitching in concentration, and he was so focused on the movement of his brush across the wall that he didn't seem to notice Seonghwa glaring at him. The latter could see by his profile that he was licking his lips in concentration, and his icy eyes were open wide. His clothes were stained in blue and green, along with the newspapers under him.

Maybe he could buy the dokkaebi some more clothes, he thought to himself.

Seonghwa closed the door.

✒

In the following days, the both of them found a rhythm.

Seonghwa would spend the day cleaning the house, or going on walks, or at the cafe, or meeting up with his friends - "You didn't reply to my texts, hyung," had said Wooyoung as soon as he saw Seonghwa, pouting, at which Yeosang had bluntly replied, "That's because you're annoying," and lots of yelling ensured -; other times he wrote. He was writing at a pretty consistent pace, so he could call himself satisfied. Maybe.

Hongjoong would appear in the evening as usual, and he wasn't the usual loud, teasing Hongjoong, no; he was the concentrated, quietly working Hongjoong. Seonghwa was quite unsettled by the sudden change, but it wasn't an unpleasant kind of unsettlement. He just wondered how the dokkaebi could surprise him even more than he already did.

But Seonghwa enjoyed this change of pace. It almost became familiar, domestic, the way they would quietly work across each other in the studio, both entirely silent due to concentration. Sometimes Seonghwa would subconsciously mouth the words he'd wrote, and Hongjoong would grimace and tell him to " _Shut up, human_." Seonghwa would initially fight back, but he'd surrendered after the third or fourth time it happened. And he admired the way Hongjoong was that concentrated on his work, anyway. There was something comforting about his determination, something that pushed Seonghwa to work harder, to write more.

They found a rhythm; and surprisingly enough, it worked, somehow.

Other times, when Seonghwa couldn't find the right words, he just turned around and watched the dokkaebi.

Watching him was fascinating.

He watched the way his fingers twitched around the brush, holding it mid-air in thought only to suddenly continue brushing it across the wall, as inspiration hit; the way he didn't care about staining himself - his clothes, his nose, his forehead, his hands and wrists -, but carefully laid the colour on the wall, making sure every stroke was precise and connected to the other; the way he got frustrated with the distance of the buckets sometimes, and just used his power to summon them near with the same tool he was using to paint in the first place. It was endearing.

One time, Hongjoong abruptly turned around, looked at Seonghwa in the eyes and announced: "I need a bigger brush."

"What kind of brush?"

"A bigger one."

The day after, Seonghwa bought him a whole set of different dimensions of brushes, just in case. Hongjoong just hummed pleasingly, wanting to seem nonchalant at what was, probably, a gift, but Seonghwa saw the excited glimmer in his eyes.

Seonghwa also didn't know if those were gifts. He didn't know if he himself wanted to call them gifts, even.

Anyway.

Hongjoong's work was messy. Seonghwa, in his numerous observations of it, still couldn't figure out exactly what Hongjoong wanted to picture. It was messy, but a planned kind of mess; tidy in his messiness, perhaps, and Seonghwa knew that sounded like an oxymoron, but there wasn't any other way to explain it.

It was a splash of different colours: mainly blue, and purple, and green, and some others mixed up by Hongjoong himself to create a passage from one shade to the other. Hongjoong was still painting the bottom, but the painting looked like it would take the whole wall. Seonghwa thought he'd probably need a ladder, if he wasn't able to float with his dokkaebi powers or something. It was messy, but it was slowly falling into place, day by day, stroke by stroke. 

Surprisingly enough, Seonghwa didn't mind it. Hell, he liked it.

One time, Seonghwa questioned him on it.

"What are you painting?"

Hongjoong didn't turn around. His clothes were starting to get really stained, if not soaked.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"I would, actually."

If Hongjoong was surprised by the honesty in that sentence, he didn't show it.

"Why?"

_Brush, brush, brush_.

"I've been wondering about it, but I still couldn't figure it out."

"That's just what humans do. They think, and they still can't understand."

"I want to understand, though."

Hongjoong finally, slowly turned around. He was standing up to reach a corner with his brush, so Seonghwa, still seated by his desk, had to look up at him. He had blue paint on his nose and some weird, mixed up shade on his cheek. His eyes, though; his eyes were directly looking at Seonghwa's ones, and his gaze was so piercing and searching Seonghwa actually shuddered under it, but refused to look away.

"You couldn't even if I told you."

“And what makes you think that?”

“The obvious: you’re human.”

"I think I could understand."

"That's pretentious, human."

Were they still talking about the same thing?

"Is wanting to know the unknown pretentious?"

"Yes. Humans should stay in their lane."

"That's cruel. And if we stayed in our lane from the beginning, we would still be monkeys."

"Wouldn't that be better?"

Seonghwa decided to ignore that. "It's by pushing boundaries that one goes on in life."

Hongjoong smiled a wicked, teasing smile. It didn't reach his eyes.

"And you would know all about that, wouldn't you, plain, boring fantasy writer?"

Seonghwa gulped. That one was meant to hurt him, as the coldness of Hongjoong's tone told, and it _did_ hurt a little. He _was_ a plain, boring fantasy writer, chasing the unknown because reality couldn’t satisfy him. Seonghwa knew that; he ignored the ache it gave him.

“That’s one of the reasons why I want to understand. My job _is_ to understand, and elaborate into words.”

“No. You pretend to understand, but you don’t. You can’t.”

They were talking about the same thing. It wasn't the painting anymore, though.

Seonghwa wondered. He wondered about that morning, about the hesitant weight on his lap, the way it shifted as if he wasn’t sure what to do. He wondered, and finally let out the question that’d been on the tip of his tongue for days, haunting his thoughts, making it hard to concentrate on anything else.

"I felt you lay on my lap, that one night. Did you?"

It was a whisper. Hongjoong's eyes went wide, his mouth forming a little _o_ , and he visibly flinched. He looked like he got caught.

"Did you?" Seonghwa repeated.

Hongjoong abruptly turned back around, facing the wall. He silently continued painting. Seonghwa waited.

"Humans should stay in their lane," finally said Hongjoong, in a voice that betrayed no emotion, "therefore so should us. If the two worlds get too mixed up, no good will come out of it."

Seonghwa chuckled quietly, smiling down at his laptop, a half-finished sentence on the blank screen.

He finally, maybe, understood.

That night passed by quieter than usual. Seonghwa wrote more than usual, eyes not leaving the screen for hours. When he glanced up, his eyes filled with a twirl of colours and the sight of Hongjoong back on the floor, shoulders hunched and clothes drenched in paint.

When he dreamed that night, he dreamed of a galaxy of blue and purple, shifting and twirling around itself, eternal and boundless; he dreamed of big, unblinking icy blue eyes glancing at him from up above.

(Seonghwa finally bought him more clothes, the day after. It was a big black hoodie, some sports pants and socks - because he couldn't bare the tapping sound of bare feet on his floor anymore. 

Hongjoong just stared at him, confused, and asked, "Can't you just wash mine like the old human lady before you did?"

"They're drenched and the paint has dried, even _I_ don't know how to wash away that mess."

Hongjoong grimaced. "I'm not wearing those. They're boring."

"Yes, you are."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am _not_."

When Seonghwa came home one night and found the dokkaebi actually wearing them, he grinned obnoxiously wide at him. Hongjoong just pouted and refused to look at the human.

"You're not wearing those, huh?"

"Shut up, human," he muttered, busying himself with his painting; then, in a lower voice, "They're clean. And they feel nice. You didn't give me an alternative. And stop grinning so much, you look stupid."

"You're not looking at me, though."

"I don't need to look at you to know you look stupid."

Seonghwa just grinned wider).

✒

Inspiration hit, just like that.

As days passed by, one after the other, Hongjoong's work started falling into place and the colours blended in with each other much better. It began making sense, looking more and more beautiful. As the once white wall - which just weeks earlier told Seonghwa of uninspiration, boredom, helplessness, the feeling of failure deep within his chest - started being scattered of colourful strokes, Seonghwa's mind began wandering off much easier, to undiscovered places and mysterious creatures, and words just seemed to naturally flow off his fingers. Every night, he would come to his bed with sore fingers and full, content chest - the feeling of fulfilment which he had once craved, and now had.

One of those evenings, his mother called.

Seonghwa always got a bad feeling in his chest when she called, but he picked up anyway.

"How's work going?" she asked, fake interest and fake smile in her voice, hiding the real purpose of the question.

"It's going alright." Then he added, because he felt obliged to not let the conversation die, out of old, unhealthy habits of his, "I've been writing a lot."

Hongjoong was looking at him curiously, having interrupted his painting. Seonghwa clutched his phone tightly and looked at the floor.

"Oh," she replied blankly, "Okay then, sweetie."

Seonghwa cringed.

The conversation _did_ die, at the end. His mom talked to him about her neighbour, and his oh so sweet son, and the fact that she got discount at her local supermarket, and didn't ask about his work anymore. Seonghwa was glad she didn't, because he didn't want to let her ruin it for him now that it was actually going great. He didn't need to hear the disappointed sighs, or the fake "Well, if that makes you happy, honey", or her mocking voice when she talked about his novels, calling them kids' books.

She hadn't ever read one. And Seonghwa didn't think she'd ever will.

His mother never called, either. Since Seonghwa moved out - tired of the bitter remarks about his dad having left, about her being all alone, about his son never being really a son to her, about her disappointment for his future plans, about not having a successful, lawyer son to brag about but just a scrawny and lonely writer; tired of tiptoeing his way around her, scared of saying or doing things that would set her off, always feeling on the edge, always feeling like a burden - it was rare that she'd call. Probably because he expected Seonghwa to call. And when she did call, it was to guilt trip him about not calling - but the more she did that, the more Seonghwa didn't feel like calling in the first place. The more Seonghwa detached himself from her.

The detaching part had actually been a long process. Long and painful, but worth it. Because when he once felt guilty and silly about wanting to fulfil his desire to just _write_ \- write for a lifetime, write for a living, write until his fingers couldn't take it anymore - and thought that maybe he should've just listened to his mother and become a lawyer because she was oh so lonely and oh so sad, he now thrived for the feeling of fulfilment that only writing, and no other work, could give him. 

He still got that bad, bad feeling in his chest whenever she called, but the satisfaction of his paragraphs and lines and words and colourful canvases made up for it.

Hongjoong was still curiously glaring at him when he hung up.

"Sorry if I distracted you," said Seonghwa.

The dokkaebi ignored him. "Was that your mother?"

"Yeah."

"You didn't look like you appreciated the call."

Seonghwa sighed. "Not really."

Hongjoong hummed.

"Not happy of her fantasy writer son?"

Seonghwa flinched at the bluntness of his words. Shit, he always did that.

"No."

"But you've been writing much more these days," _because my work is inspiring you_ , but that was left unsaid, "That makes you happy."

"It does."

Hongjoong hummed again. He looked small in his - stained - black hoodie, all short limbs and short fingers clutching at his brush, covered toes twitching and lithe tongue darting out to wet his lips, but he always had something big about him, a big presence and big knowledge and big perception. Seonghwa knew the dokkaebi could see right through his fragile, human soul, and he surprised himself by the realization that he didn't mind it - not really, not at all.

"Isn't that the most important thing?"

"I guess."

"Then why are you letting her ruin it?"

Seonghwa flinched, again. He realized just now that he had been biting his lower lip so hard it started bleeding. He wondered how pathetic he must have looked, all wide-eyed and fidgeting and fast breathing just because of a few words from his disappointed mother.

Hongjoong really could see right through him.

"I don't know," he breathed. "It just- happens."

Hongjoong's gaze was piercing.

It was comforting.

"You should do what makes you happy."

"That sounds cliché."

"Am I wrong, though?"

He paused. "You're not."

Hongjoong grinned, suddenly smug. "See? That wasn't too hard."

Seonghwa spluttered, showing his offense; however, he felt his heartbeat finally slow down.

Hongjoong turned around to his painting. He was standing on his tiptoes to reach a corner on the right. At this rate, Seonghwa really needed to give him a ladder.

"If it makes you feel better, she sounds terrible. Worse than most humans," Hongjoong suddenly said. He then paused. "Fuck her."

And to that, Seonghwa couldn't exactly disagree.

✒

About a week later, Seonghwa provided Hongjoong of a ladder to reach the higher spots for his painting. However, on the ladder, Hongjoong still went on his tiptoes to reach spots on the side he could've reached coming down and moving the ladder but was too lazy to do so. Seonghwa scolded him a few times for it, because "You'll fall off and crack your skull, Hongjoong", and the dokkaebi just winked at him and reached further to the left. 

About a week and a half later, Seonghwa received another phone call at 8:17pm. He was so invested in a paragraph he almost didn't hear the phone ringing beside him, his ears registering the noise as something distant. Across from him, Hongjoong, equally invested in his painting, grimaced.

The call was from Yunho.

"Hello?", he picked up.

"Hyung! Uh, just a heads up. We're coming over. To put you out of your misery, you know."

"You're _what_?"

"Coming over. All of us. So- ouch, Mingi, what the _fuck_ , get off me you're too heavy," Seonghwa heard some confusing shouting and a deep voiced giggle he knew belonged to Mingi, "Huh, as I was saying- so tidy up now or never again. Bye."

Then, he hung up.

Seonghwa stared at his phone. He stared some more. 

"Fuck."

So that's how he found himself, ten minutes later, sitting on the living room's floor because his couch was completely occupied, in the midst of a feud about what genre of movie to watch and trying really hard not to panic at the sight of an amused Hongjoong wandering around the living room and behind the couch with his ridiculous invisibility hat perched up on his head. He had told the dokkaebi to just disappear somewhere for the night, he really, _really_ did, but the latter just stuck his tongue out and ignored him.

He nervously tapped his fingers on the parquet. The bunch laying on the couch behind him was loud, such loud noise compared to weeks of complete silence; but the loudest noise in Seonghwa’s ears was the slow tapping of bare feet on the floor, reminding him of the dokkaebi’s presence of which only him was aware. For now.

_Thump, thump, thump_.

This was going to be hell; Seonghwa could only tell.

"Horror movie night!" San loudly yelled for the fifth time since he stepped inside the house.

"Fuck no."

"You're just a pussy, Mingi."

He heard an offended grunt above him and some slaps. He didn't bother to look up.

"What about some sci-fi?", suggested Yunho. However, his suggestion was completely ignored as San yelled, but louder this time, "Horror movie night!"

"You say that but you're the one who'll have nightmares for an entire week."

"Wooyoung! You're supposed to agree with me!"

"Just saying."

"He's right, though."

"Yeosang! Is this bully San party?"

There was a pause. Then, he heard a collective hum.

San made an affronted whine and stuck his feet down to nudge at Seonghwa with his toes – like a 5 year-old _child_ would do.

"Hyung, defend my honor."

"We can watch a horror movie if you really want to," he heard an excited yelp, "But don't go and text me at 3 am whining about how you can't sleep."

"Promise! You're the best!"

Seonghwa turned around, ready to get up and sort through his cds. What awaited him was the sight of a pouting Mingi squished to Yunho's side, who was petting his hair with a pleased, calm expression; a very excited San, draped all over Wooyoung's lap; a very obviously displeased Yeosang, annoyed at the lack of personal space on the tiny couch; and behind them all, most importantly, there was the sight of a smirking Hongjoong, with his elbow on the couch's backrest and his chin on his left palm, a mischievous spark in his eyes which only told Seonghwa of a disaster about to happen. The dokkaebi was looking right at him, and his eyes told of an unspoken challenge. Seonghwa quickly looked away.

The chosen movie was some old one about a haunted hotel Seonghwa remembered having watched when he was 11 – and it _was_ quite scary, as he announced to Mingi’s weak protest. San yelped and clapped his hands. He put it on and joined Yeosang on the floor, because the boy merely lasted 15 minutes squished on the sofa before giving up the soft cushions and crawling on the parquet. The explanation was “I’d rather lay on _lava_ than be squished by you four assholes. I can’t fucking breathe on that couch,” and Seonghwa just gave him a sympathetic look.

The first hour went like Seonghwa had imagined it’d go: Mingi complained and screamed a whole lot; Yeosang was completely quiet if not for the occasional flinches at the occasional jumpscares; San added to Mingi’s screams, clinging to Wooyoung for dear life, much to the boy’s annoyed grunts; Yunho just yelped and laughed nervously at every jumpscare.

Then, an hour and a half in, something happened.

At one particular jumpscare and one particular collective scream, Seonghwa heard a giggle. A giggle that could only come from one person, or to better say, one creature.

He was quite sure the invisibility hat couldn’t erase noises.

What ensured, was chaos.

San flinched off the couch and onto the floor, muttering a series of curses. “Did you hear that? It was behind me, I swear it came from behind the couch, did you hear that holy shit-“

“Was that someone laughing?”

“It was more like- a demonic giggle holy shit Seonghwa is your house _haunted_?”

“N-no, no it’s not haunted-“

“Dude, we all heard it. What the fuck.”

“Bro, stop clutching my shirt, you’ll rip it.”

“Bro. I’m fucking scared.”

“Bro.”

Another jumpscare interrupted the confused convo. Mingi yelled and jumped off the couch, kicking Yunho in the face. Yunho yelled, at first for the jumpscare, then for the pain.

Seonghwa couldn’t take it anymore. He hurriedly reached for the TV remote, paused the movie and stood up in front of the couch in silence. Everyone looked at each other – like in some random _The Office_ scene -, and Seonghwa suppressed the need to look behind the couch at Hongjoong because if he’d stared at what for the others looked like an empty spot he’d freak them out further; but he could imagine that the dokkaebi had a grin planted on his cheeky, amused face.

San, sprawled on the floor, perched his head up at Seonghwa and asked very seriously, “Hyung. Do you have a demon in your house?”

Seonghwa flinched. “I don’t, what the fuck.”

(Not exactly a demon, but something close to that).

San hummed, like he was seriously considering how to phrase the next sentence. “Hyung, you might have a demon in your house.”

Yeosang, who was still sitting on the floor, rolled his eyes.

“You’re so dramatic. That might have been a noise from outside or whatever.”

San gasped. “Yeosang! I heard it! It was a giggle and it was right behind me, I _heard_ it!”

“Me too!”, breathed Mingi, still in aftershock.

Seonghwa heard static in his ears. He shook his head repeatedly, closing his eyes shut to fight off the migraine that was creeping up in his temples, and retorted, “Guys, you’re just scared because of the movie. There’s definitely not a demon in my house, nor anywhere else. Chill.”

Except, when he opened up his eyes, icy blue ones, a terrifyingly wicked grin and red flaming hair awaited him.

Seonghwa loudly yelped, stepping back as if pushed. 

“Hyung, what- what is happening-“

“Oh my God it’s the demon isn’t it-“

“Did Mingi faint? Guys, did Mingi _faint_?”

“What do you mean Mingi _fainted_?“

“I swear to God, if y’all don’t stop screaming right now-“

Seonghwa clapped his hands once. Every single pair of eyes in the room turned to stare at him, except one, which was doing that since earlier, but Seonghwa tried his best not to stare back at it. (Icy blue eyes, and a mischievous smirk).

“Ha!,” He laughed, trying to sound as convincing as possible, “Got ya! See? No demon. No demon at all. Nope. Now, if you’ll, um excuse me,” he smiled and grabbed Hongjoong’s wrist, hiding his clutched hand behind the long sleeve of his sweater, “I have to go to the bathroom. Revive Mingi or something. Sorry about that, by the way.”

He hurried towards the bathroom, dragging the dokkaebi in with him, then he locked the door. He took a breath and turned around to face Hongjoong.

“Hongjoong, what the fuck?” he asked in a hushed voice, although the question was simply rhetorical. Because, seriously. What the fuck.

“Yes?”

“I repeatedly asked you to keep quiet tonight, and you not only laugh during a horror movie-“

“It was an unwanted laugh! It’s not my fault your human friends are very laughable at when scared-“

“- you also sneak from behind the couch to stand in front of me and make me flinch! In front of my already terrified friends!”

“I just saw an opportunity and took it.”

Hongjoong still had that sly grin on his face, as if he was very amused by Seonghwa’s anger, as if he was pleased at himself for not having listened to Seonghwa’s words. It was truly infuriating.

Seonghwa moved on his own as he unconsciously stepped towards him, slowly forcing the dokkaebi to step back until his shoulders hit the wall; and despite their current vicinity, he did not lose that same grin.

Truly, truly infuriating.

“This was supposed to be a quiet night, and you ruined that,” breathed Seonghwa into the dokkaebi’s face; he was so close he could count his eyelashes, if he wanted to, “Are you aware?”

“Very.”

“You’re so pleased at yourself, aren’t you?”

“Hm.”

Seonghwa huffed. “I should just get rid of you.”

“You can’t. The only one who could get rid of the other here is me, human.”

“Then why haven’t you already?”

Hongjoong grinned wider. “Because you’re oh so fun to tease.”

Seonghwa decided to ignore that, as he snarled, “This is my house. You should at least _try_ to adhere to my rules.”

“Your rules are boring.”

“They’re _my_ rules.”

“Yes, and that’s why they’re boring.”

From this close, Seonghwa could see his odd eye colour clearer, and it was truly a fascinating sight: it was a deep, icy blue, but there was an outer white circle around the iris and some bright yellow fragments around the pupil. The dokkaebi’s eyes were hooded in a challenging glare, as the gorgeous mix of colour glimmered under the shadow of his eyelashes.

The human was, despite all, transfixed. 

“All I asked you was to keep quiet for one fucking night,” Seonghwa then retorted.

“And why would I do that? You’re a mere human; remember who has the upper hand here.”

“And yet, I’m the one forcing you to the wall right now.” Seonghwa knew it didn’t matter. He knew that Hongjoong held a much bigger power on him, one that went beyond the simple physical one. He said that anyway.

Hongjoong tilted his head. “And what made you think I wouldn’t like that?”

Oh. He was flirting, wasn’t he? And the flirting was part of the unspoken challenge. Wasn’t it?

With his head tilted, smug grin and hooded icy eyes – a strikingly different colour from his flaming red hair - Hongjoong looked gorgeous. Challenging, and infuriating, and _gorgeous_. The realization hit Seonghwa in that exact moment; it kicked the breath out of his lungs, it made his chest ache in a way he never felt it ache before – and it grew a fire in the pit of his stomach, tall and glimmering and _warm_.

The creature had always looked fascinating, in an odd, unnatural kind of way; but it was the first time Seonghwa found him gorgeous – beautiful, captivating, _alluring_ \- and he found it hard to breathe.

Seonghwa chuckled, trying not to let his voice tremble, and mumbled, “You’re a cheeky little shit.”

Hongjoong suddenly leaned closer, his eyes glimmering at the prospect of a challenge, and if they were close before, they were even closer now; his warm breath lingered on the other’s skin, and Seonghwa shuddered. “What are you going to do about it?”

He was expecting an answer. Seonghwa wanted to give him one, wanted to win the challenge, wanted to pin him to the cold marble and whisper a further provocation in his ear, just to have the satisfaction of feeling the dokkaebi _tremble_ against his skin, damp breath and goose bumps – but he still found it hard to breathe.

At Seonghwa’s hesitation, Hongjoong leaned back. “Nothing at all; am I right, fantasy writer? Tsk,” he chuckled, and his glare became victorious, as if he had just proven a point. “Truly boring.”

As if he had just won the challenge.

Seonghwa felt the warmth in his stomach rise and settle in his throat – gasping, swelling, suffocating. So he stepped back, and he let the linger of Hongjoong’s breath leave his skin until he didn’t feel like sinking anymore.

With a few steps now separating them, Hongjoong walked to the door and unlocked it, while Seonghwa stared at his back. “I’ll be painting, so I won’t bother you anymore,”, he said, tilting his head to glare past his shoulders. “Go back to your human friends.”

And that, Seonghwa did. 

They decided to listen to Yunho’s suggestion and watch a sci-fi movie, because even San was too freaked out to continue the previous one. It was about time travel, and as the protagonist found himself back into WW1 the battle scenes coming from the TV got bright and loud, but all Seonghwa could envision were icy blue eyes and a victorious glimmer.

Seonghwa wasn’t stupid; he knew all Hongjoong wanted since the beginning was to challenge him, to push his boundaries and make him break under his teasing, to see how far Seonghwa would go into it – and he also knew he couldn’t give in to the pressure, but he still felt irrationally mad at himself for having lost the challenge that was presented to him. All Hongjoong wanted was to allure him, to maneuver his emotions only to step to the side and be the spectator as Seonghwa broke down – something that he should’ve expected from a supernatural creature like him, from a spirit, a _dokkaebi_. But.

But Hongjoong looked gorgeous.

Hongjoong looked gorgeous, striking, and Seonghwa couldn’t remember anymore what exactly distinguished him from the other. He gradually felt the lines between what was human and what was not, what was mortal and what was undying, what belonged to the earth – to this house, to _him_ \- and what didn’t, blur. 

Hongjoong looked gorgeous, and the realization didn’t seem to hit him as hard as it did at first; because he, a fantasy writer, had always craved the unknown, had always found it beautiful and had always tried to make it his own through his man-made words.

(Tilted head, smug grin and hooded icy eyes).

Beside him, Yeosang gave him a suspicious glare. Seonghwa flinched, suddenly brought back from his trance, then he pinched the bridge of his nose as he let out a tired sigh.

What _exactly_ had he gotten himself into?

✒


End file.
